


You Fit Me Better

by Rena



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Fluff, M/M, accidental clothes sharing, psssht they don't do it on purpose at all what are you talking about
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-02-28
Packaged: 2018-01-14 03:04:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1250365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rena/pseuds/Rena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Stiles and Derek ended up wearing each others clothes on accident, and one time it's deliberate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Fit Me Better

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blaineswolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blaineswolf/gifts).



****

_(i.)_

“ – I’ve been thinking about a way to get rid of these faeries without everything erupting into chaos and bloodshed again, and – dude, are you even listening to anything I’m saying?” Stiles asks, snapping his fingers right in front of Scott’s nose just to be an asshole. In his defence, he doesn’t like being ignored, and Scott does startle a little at his sudden motion, which gives him reason to be extra smug about his childish behaviour. It’s not often he manages to surprise a werewolf, he has to revel in it.

Scott grimaces, looking satisfyingly contrite. “Sorry, man. I just – are you wearing Derek’s shirt?”

Stiles frowns in confusion and looks down at himself to see that yes, he is, in fact, wearing a Henley that most certainly does not belong to him. His entire wardrobe consists solely of plaid shirts, t-shirt, some sweatshirts and, well, more plaid, which he really wishes Lydia would stop judging him for. Plaid is iconic, okay, and wearing layers makes him look less like the scrawny, gangly seventeen-year-old he is. Not everyone has the body to pull off tight Henleys that show off your killer abs.

“Uh,” Stiles says. He’s not entirely sure how he ended up wearing a Henley that for all intents and purposes shouldn’t be found anywhere near his house, but then again, this morning had been kind of a blur because he’d slept through his alarm and had only just stumbled out of bed in time to grab the first thing in his drawer and brush his teeth being half-asleep before racing to school.

“How do you – do you smell him on that shirt?” he asks, suddenly curious, lifting the hem up to sniff at it himself. It doesn’t smell like anything but laundry detergent to him, fresh and clean, and, uh, kind of warm. Not that warm is a smell. It’s also surprisingly soft – he always figured Derek wore the most uncomfortable clothing in history, either as a form of punishing himself or to make it easier for him to scowl at everyone and everything.

“Yeah, I do,” Scott confirms.

“That’s kind of cool,” Stiles says. “Though if you can still smell that, I really don’t wanna know what the locker room smells like to you after practice. This must’ve been in my drawer for _months_. Which reminds me, that bastard still has one of my t-shirts.”

Scott’s eyebrows climb higher up his forehead. “Anything I should know?”

Stiles punches him in the shoulder. “Not like that, dude. Remember the time Derek was a wanted fugitive?”

“Which time?”

Point. “The one after Peter trapped us in the school and we saved him from being shot by the Argents? He thought it was a good idea to hide in my room for a bit, and his shirt was kind of bloody, so when Danny came over to do lab work I gave him one of mine and put this one into the laundry. He looks enough like a serial killer on a good day; being covered in blood didn’t really help him look inconspicuous. I figured he’d come through my window like the creeper he is and take it back.” He shrugs. “Guess he was too busy with the almost dying and maiming people and biting a bunch of teenagers and then almost dying again to come pick it up.”

“And now you’ve claimed it for yourself?”

“I’m not giving it back until I get _my_ shirt back, dude. I’m not rich, I can’t afford to give free shirts to alpha werewolves who have enough money to drive around in pretentious cars but don’t even live in decent living spaces.” Stiles tilts his head, rubs his finger along the soft material. “Actually, I might consider it payment for housing him and putting up with him.”

Scott snorts. “Yeah, right.”

**_∞_ **

_(ii.)_

Stiles takes one look at Derek and heaves a deep sigh. “You’re naked again.”

“Thanks, I hadn’t noticed,” Derek bites out, rolling his eyes so hard it must hurt.

“Cut the sarcasm, dude, unless you want me to force you to walk to your loft in your birthday suit and get arrested for public indecency by my dad,” Stiles retorts, although he’s already digging through Roscoe’s trunk. He’s taken to always being prepared for everything, and coming across naked werewolves is a pretty regular occurrence. He never knows whether to be grateful or horrified. It _is_ a pretty sweet view, but it turns out it can also be incredibly awkward to see your friends running around naked, especially the ones who’re in relationships with people who could rip your heard off for looking at their significant other the wrong way. And, you know, being seventeen and a perpetually horny virgin makes it kinda hard to not look at naked people the wrong (right) way. It’s not his fault his body is conditioned to pop a boner at basically every ever-so-slightly sexual situation he finds himself in, but try telling that to a murderous, possessive werewolf.

“Seriously, what is the deal with werewolves and nudity?” he asks as he pulls out a well-worn, slightly ragged pair of sweats and tosses it over his shoulder without looking back; he knows Derek will catch it anyway. Stupid werewolf reflexes. “I asked Scott a couple of times, but he can’t or won’t tell me. Is it the call of communing with nature? Is it the need to show off your perfectly sculpted bodies?”

“It’s not wanting to ruin all your clothes when you’re constantly running through muddy woods,” Derek says. “And being smart enough to take them off before a full shift so you don’t rip them to pieces every time you transform.”

“Well maybe you should be smart enough to go back to where you left your pile of clothes, then,” Stiles argues. “Or stash some of them at several places all over the woods for emergencies and all the occasions your crappy sense of direction doesn’t lead you back to your starting point.”

When he turns around, Derek has pulled on the sweats and is holding out an expectant hand, waiting for a shirt. Stiles wants to kick him for being presumptuous and demanding but the truth is, both he and Derek know he’ll not let him walk around half naked anyway. Still, Stiles knows how to take his revenge in little ways and he tries and probably fails to contain his grin when he hands Derek an orange and blue t-shirt.

“I’m not wearing that atrocity.” Derek’s voice is flat.

 “It fits you.”

Derek grits his teeth. “Give me another shirt.”

“No can do, unless you want one that cuts off your air support and shows off your belly button.” Stiles grins in absolute glee.

“That one will do.”

It takes Stiles a moment to comprehend that Derek is pointing at the plaid shirt he’s currently wearing. “Dude,” he says. “No way.”

“It’s eighty degrees outside, Stiles, you won’t freeze without a second layer.” 

“You can’t know that,” Stiles protests, curling his arms protectively over his body. That’s his favourite plaid shirt, okay? He likes the colours, and he likes the texture of the material, likes the softness and the way you can see how often it’s been worn by the thinness around the elbows.

“You’re the one always complaining that you’re not a delicate flower.” Derek is smirking now, the asshole.

“Ugh, _fine_ ,” Stiles grumbles, shrugs the shirt off, balls it up and throws it at Derek’s face with little success. It doesn’t hit its mark. Of fucking course. “I want it back, you hear me? Washed. And _perfectly intact._ If you so much as pull a single thread I will _end you_. Did I make myself clear?”

“Crystal,” Derek says, sounding utterly bored and not in the least threatened. He doesn’t fumble with the buttons at all.  Stiles wants to clog him in his stupidly handsome face.

“Just so you know, wearing plaid makes you look like a lumberjack,” he states petulantly as he climbs into the driver’s seat. A _sexy_ lumberjack, he refrains from elaborating. He has _some_ dignity, okay?

“Just so you know, wearing plaid makes you look like an idiot,” Derek counters and then cocks his head in mock contemplation. “Now that I think of it, everything does.”

“I will literally leave your stranded ass in the woods if you don’t shut up,” Stiles threatens.

“Only if you never want to see your beloved shirt again.”

“Ugh, I hate you.”

**_∞_ **

_(iii.)_

He doesn’t intend for it to happen, okay?

He doesn’t, no matter what Scott says. He doesn’t even _like_ wearing Derek’s stuff. It’s too big for him, makes him look even more like a beanpole than he already does. And he’s not even that scrawny anymore; he’s filled out a little ever since this whole werewolf thing started. Turns out running for your life does great things to your physique – if you manage to get out alive, that is. But the fact remains that even now that Derek isn’t an alpha anymore and has lost a lot of his bulk, and even though Stiles is as tall as him, he’s still mostly swimming in Derek’s clothes.

It does not do great things for his figure.

(Shut up, Lydia, his plaid shirts _totally do!_ )

The point. The point is, Stiles doesn’t even want to wear Derek’s clothes. They look stupid and they smell stupid and they don’t fit. But the thing about running around with creatures of the night a lot is that it destroys an unbelievable amount of clothes. He’s had to stop keeping track of all the items of clothing the supernatural shenanigans had claimed; there’s just too many.

This time, it had been his second-favourite pair of jeans. (Second favourite because he only had three, and it was a better fit than the light blue jeans but not as good as the red ones, which are kind of perfect in the way they are tight without suffocating his junk). And because he cannot go to school with a pair of trousers covered in mud and blood and with several tears and holes in them and he also doesn’t have time to swing by his house before first period starts unless he wants to risk getting detention for an entire week – which he doesn’t – he has no choice but to ask Derek to lend him a pair.

Derek, tired and disgruntled, shoves a pair of sweatpants at him.

“Are you fucking serious?” Stiles asks incredulously. “I can’t go to school in sweatpants that will literally fall off my ass.”

“So roll them at the hip.”

“Oh yeah, great solution, let’s call high tide at the legs,” Stiles snarks.

“Not my problem.”

“I will make it your problem.”

Derek seems like he contemplates his chances of winning the argument versus the annoyance Stiles will cause him, and forfeits, throwing his hands in the air. “ _Fine_ ,” he huffs and disappears into his bedroom only to return a moment later with proper jeans. “These are my smallest. Take it or leave it.”

Stiles takes it.

He didn’t anticipate having to perform a dance somewhat akin to a snake being controlled by a snake-charmer. “Jesus fuck,” he wheezes out, wiggling on the bed and yanking desperately at the belt loops in a desperate attempt to pull the material over his thighs. “How do you get into these? Do you use Vaseline? Do you have someone to lend you a hand?”

“I’m not helping you into your clothes,” Derek says sharply.

“No help needed, thank you,” Stiles replies and pretends it doesn’t come out as strangled. He may let out a yell of victory when a particularly hard pull has the jeans sliding upwards and more to where they are supposed to end up without ripping off one of the belt loops. He staggers to an upright position and holds on for dear life, even though he doubts gravity alone could undo his hard work with how much the denim is biting into his skin. Now he only needs to get it the rest of the way over his ass. “I –“ he says, jumping up and down and feeling a lot like he suspects girls do every morning when they get into skin-tight jeans, “am” – jump – “getting” – jump – “along” – jump – “just” – jump – “fine” – another jump and seriously, _so close_ , and “YES!” he shouts when he’s finally all the way in, and clamps down on the _noooo_ his nuts scream in protest.

He’s never gonna be able to have children.

Stiles seriously regrets rejecting the sweatpants as he sucks in his stomach a little to get the button through the hole.

Derek laughs at him the entire time he needs to waddle out of the loft.

Isaac laughs at him, too, when he finally gets to school (too late, because of fucking course he spent almost as much time trying to get into Derek’s jeans as it would’ve taken him to go home and change). Asshole. Stiles hits him over the head with his physics book in retaliation. At least Scott is sympathetic and both Allison and Lydia give him an appreciative whistle and tell him to wear fitting pants more often, so the day is not a total loss, even though he does get detention and spends the whole day walking slowly as if he’s walking on eggshells and trying to get used to the uncomfortable tightness of the pants.

He still decides to put itching powder into the jeans before he gives them back to Derek.

**_∞_ **

_(iv.)_

Stiles shows up at Derek’s loft early on Sunday morning because he hasn’t been able to sleep all night, and if he doesn’t get to rest, then Derek should neither. It’s the perfect time to give Derek his jeans back; Stiles isn’t sure whether the itching powder will actually be a success or if Derek can smell it from a mile away with his wolfy nose, so he figures he can at least make sure that he can get back at him in some way.

He even, in a fit of...something he doesn’t really know how to identify, packed the Henley as well. It’s stupid. Derek probably doesn’t even remember leaving it there, considering it was over a year ago. But it’s been lying around and doing stupid things like remind Stiles of Derek, and it has made him do even stupider things like make Stiles wear it from time to time ‘cause it’s seriously soft and nice and that’s just...yeah, it has to stop. It has to stop before Stiles does more stupid things, like get excited and dreamy over the fact that he’s wearing Derek’s shirt, or like contemplating whether to pretend that it still smells like Derek and jack off to the smell.

Stiles has sunk very, very low indeed, but there are lines that even he won’t cross. Still, it’s better to avoid the temptation altogether.

So he rings the door bell repeatedly at seven a.m. on a Sunday morning, just to be obnoxious, and because being an asshole is easier than being someone who lusts after their (not always so) friendly and seriously out of his league neighbourhood werewolf.

It occurs to him that he should’ve thought this through more thoroughly when Derek opens the door in a pair of boxers and a very familiar T-shirt, with sleep mussed hair and the pattern of his pillow imprinted on his cheek.

“A- _ha_!” he exclaims, pointing an accusatory finger at Derek’s chest and inwardly thanking God for his brain not shutting down completely at the sight.

Derek looks down at himself, confused. “What?”

“That,” Stiles pokes one of his pecs and tries very much not to start moaning at how firm and perfectly sculpted they are, “is _my_ shirt.”

There’s a pregnant pause. “Oh,” Derek says, sounding marginally more awake now.

Stiles shoulders his way into the loft, determined not to lose his train of thought. Derek wearing his clothes is a sight he has come to appreciate a lot more than he is comfortable admitting, and that in combination with an adorable, sleepy version of Derek is too much for him to handle sober. “Don’t ‘oh’ me,” he bickers. “You cannot tell me that you didn’t know it was mine, you’re the one with the super nose. No, you know it was mine and deliberately didn’t give it back. You’re a dirty shirt stealer.”

“The word you’re looking for is ‘thief’”, Derek points out, now seriously disgruntled and slams the front door shut.

“Don’t sass me, I’m not at my full mental capacity this early in the morning,” Stiles retorts.

“Which begs the question: why the fuck are you here? I hope it’s something more important than accusing me of stealing your shirt.”

Stiles waves the plastic bag around. “I’m returning your clothes.”

Derek is unimpressed. “At seven am?”

“Yes,” Stiles says. “Because I’m not a shameless thief like you.”

“At seven. In the morning. On a Sunday,” Derek grits out.

“Yup.”

Derek looks at the ceiling the as if it has all the answers as to what he did to deserve whatever this. “Great. You returned them. Now leave.”

“Am I not going to get a thank you?” Stiles asks and pouts. “You brute.”

“I’m thanking you by not shutting you up, violently.”

“U-huh,” Stiles says. He’s long since learnt to not take Derek’s threats seriously; a person can only threaten to kill you and then turn around to save your life so many times before you figure out they’re all bark and no bite.

“Leave. Now.”

Stiles crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Not before you give me back my shirt.”

Derek looks at him incredulously. “Are you serious.”

“Correct intonation when asking questions: we’re working on that.” Stiles grins.

Derek’s stripping is almost as angry as the time it was when he was in Stiles’ bedroom and helped him manipulate Danny. Only this time, there’s no innocent party to save Stiles from getting the shirt in his face.

Stiles still counts it a win.

His internal victory dance is cut short when Derek looks at the contents of the plastic bag and pulls the Henley out. Stiles knows from the moment he recognises it that he is screwed. He wishes he could beat a hasty retreat, but Derek is already in front of him.

“This is mine,” he says.

“Stellar observation, Sherlock, hence my returning it.”

“You had this the entire time and yet give _me_ shit about having your shirt?”

“I don’t have a super sniffer to identify who it belongs to,” Stiles says indignantly. “It was in my drawer the entire time, I’d forgotten about it.”

Derek’s smirk widens. “Lie,” he says. “Even if I couldn’t hear your heartbeat, I’d know you’ve worn this. Your smell is all over it.”

“Other clothes in my drawer stinking it up?” Stiles ventures.

“Nope.”

“It was an honest mistake?”

“Still no.”

Stiles swallows, fingers tightening around the cloth of his own shirt. “Well,” he says. “It still counts. I gave it back first. Don’t judge me, it’s comfy. _And_ you still held my shirt hostage, so I needed to have bargaining chip, right?”

Derek snorts and takes a step back. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“I don’t need any help sleeping at night,” Stiles yells at his retreating back. “I certainly don’t think about you when I go to sleep, either!”

He just hopes Derek is still too sleepy or too far out of range to hear the skip in his heartbeat.

**_∞_ **

_(v.)_

Stiles is so, so ready to blast Three Days Grace all day on repeat. The only reason he doesn’t is that he is not currently in possession of loudspeakers. Well, that and the fact that the song “I hate everything about you” also features words like love and all that shit, and Derek really doesn’t need any ambiguous messages, no matter how much that would be true for Stiles as well. No, Derek needs to get the message that Stiles is trying to broadcast via his eyebrows, which is “I hate everything you choose to be” – a feat much harder to accomplish than Derek makes it look. In his defence, it would be difficult for anyone to pull off a look of murderous annoyance when your whole body is shivering and you look like a drowned kitten. Also, he supposes, he doesn’t have the eyebrows for it.

So he says it out loud, for emphasis: “I hate everything you choose to be.”

Except even that doesn’t come out nearly as forcefully as he intents it to, because his teeth are chattering and the words come out in short, stuttered breaths. Stiles tries to rub some warmth back into his muscles and to not grimace at how much he sounds like the poor, stuttering kid that used to be in his class at primary school and was laughed at by nearly everyone for not getting out a single straight sentence.

Derek, thank fuck, isn’t laughing. His frown alternates between concerned and constipated, which he damn well should be. Concerned, that is, because humans do catch pneumonia when they are dumped into an icy lake, unlike werewolves, who are dumb and really should have learnt to fucking listen to him by now. Stiles told them, _repeatedly_ , that the faerie thing wasn’t done yet, and he had put even more emphasis on his _do not piss them off under any circumstances ever_ part of his lecture. But hey, who cares about what Stiles says when pissing fairies off and subsequently getting Stiles nearly drowned is just so much fun?

“I’m gonna make you pay for the hospital bills,” Stiles swears and blows some hot air over his fingers. He can almost feel his fingertips again, yay. “And for the funeral, if I die.”

“You’re not going to die,” Derek dismisses, but he _does_ crank up the heating to maximum again. Another shiver runs through Stiles’ body when the warm air hits him, and he immediately shoves his hands right in front of the vents, letting out an appreciative moan as he can almost feel his extremities thaw.

Derek glances at him from the side. “You need to get out of these clothes.”

“So I stop dripping all over the expensive upholstery?” Stiles snarks.

“No, so you won’t get sick. You know that, Stiles.”

Stiles does indeed know that. He knows all about hypothermia, and he knows that if wet, cold clothes are involved, one should rid oneself of them immediately. But he’s not a werewolf. He has standards. “I’m not getting naked in front of you, no matter how much you’re salivating to get a good look at the Stiles.”

Derek gives him a disgusted look. “I don’t think I want to get a good look on anyone who refers to himself in the third person. However, this is not about what I want. Lose the clothes.”

“No thank you,” Stiles says haughtily. “It’s a five minutes drive to your place. Being cold for five minutes is worth preserving some of my dignity.”

“You can’t preserve something you never had,” Derek says, because he is still an asshole who doesn’t know how to spare Stiles’ feelings at any given time, even in situations when no one should give him shit. “I could tear them off, you know.”

“Try it and lose your hand,” Stiles says. “Also, don’t think I won’t tell on you with my dad for violating traffic regulations. Keep your hands on the steering wheel and drive faster.”

“What, so your dad can pull me over for violating a traffic regulation concerning the speed limit?” Derek raises his eyebrows, but he does accelerate. “I refuse to pay your bills just because you’re being stupid. Don’t come running to whine to me about getting sick.”

“Excuse me, this is still all _your fault,”_ Stiles says indignantly. “I will hold you responsible.”

He doesn’t mean to say anything that will destroy their easy banter, but he sees in the way that Derek’s mouth tightens that he did involuntarily hit a nerve. It makes something twist inside him, knowing that Derek kept up the banter for his sake, that he is already blaming himself again. If there’s one thing Stiles doesn’t want, it’s to see Derek drown in his ocean of guilt and misery again. He’s used to this Derek, of course, had gotten to know him like this, but he hasn’t seen him like this in a long time and he really, really doesn’t want to again. He prefers the new Derek, the one who’s calmer and more balanced, more relaxed, not as terribly weighed down by his past, the one who laughs and smiles every once in a while, the one who will argue with him for hours whether Marvel or DC is better and will let him steal the toppings of his pizza.

 “If I get sick, I will spend the entirety of the time in your loft. I will claim your bed, throw used tissues everywhere and force you to cook me homemade chicken soup,” Stiles says. “It will be a nightmare for you, and you won’t be able to say no, because you can’t resist puppy eyes, and because the pack will judge you and my dad will be super grateful that someone looks after his son while he’s at work.”

The lines of tension relax the tiniest bit. “Oh no,” Derek mocks, “that is a terrible punishment. How ever will I deal?”

“You’ll just have to pull yourself together, be a real werewolf.”

“Or I could use my werewolf powers to throw you out of the window,” Derek muses and pulls up in front of the apartment building.

“Fuck you,” Stiles says, and empties the little pond that he’s been carrying around in his shoe over Derek’s lap.

In the loft, Derek herds Stiles into the bathroom and aggressively tells him to towel off before stalking out the door with the promise to get him some warm clothes. Stiles hastens to pull off his clothes and throw them into the bathtub – and who would’ve thought Derek had a _bathtub_? As well as surprisingly fluffy and heated (good Gods in heaven!) towels. For a moment, he considers just burying himself in a cocoon of warm towels and never getting out.

“I’m marrying your towels,” he announces to Derek when he returns, sweatpants and warm socks and a fucking _Christmas sweater_ in his arms. 

“Good to know the icy water had no negative effect whatsoever on your intelligence,” Derek deadpans.

Stiles wants to answer with a heartfelt ‘screw you’, but he feels like that would be a little repetitive. He eyes the clothes dubiously. “Do they smell like you?” he asks. “Cause I’m not in the mood to have Scott ask me why I’m wearing your clothes again.”

“Again?”

“Ugh, never mind.” Stiles yanks the clothes out of his hands. “A little privacy?”

When he pads into the living room, there’s a cup of hot chocolate sitting on the coffee table and Derek is sitting in a nest of blankets built on the floor. “What,” Stiles says intelligently, and stares.

“Get in,” Derek grumbles.

“Sorry. I need a moment to re-evaluate everything I know about you.”

Derek rolls his eyes, grabs him and pulls him down to the floor, arranges their limbs until Stiles is sitting in the V of his legs, his back to Derek’s chest. He feels a little like a puppet, and he would complain if it didn’t simultaneously feel super awesome to be warm again. “I’m not risking you sneezing into my sheets and bitching about my nursing abilities. If I’m exposed to your annoying everything for an extended period of time, you will not survive it.” Derek promises, but he sounds kind of stupidly fond while saying it.

Stiles really wants to tell him that death threats aren’t nearly as effective when you’re cuddling with the person you supposedly hate, but there’s a warm hand sneaking under his sweater and splaying out over his abdomen, another one curling softly around his fingers, and Derek’s chin resting on his shoulder, so he just sighs and melts into the touch. Forget the warm towels, Derek is like a fucking radiator, and Jesus, everyone should have their own personal werewolf to keep them warm.

“You’re better than the towels,” Stiles murmurs, succumbing to the sleepiness and stupid with it. “I’m calling off the engagement, I’m leaving them for you.”

He feels rather than hears Derek’s chuckle, a low vibration in his chest and against Stiles’s skin as Derek buries is face in Stiles’ neck. “Okay,” he says quietly.

**_∞_ **

_(+ i)_

Stiles is a liar. He totally loves wearing Derek’s stuff. Derek likes seeing Stiles wearing his stuff, too. He’s equally happy wearing Stiles’ shirts himself, which, too, is all kinds of awesome.

Except when it sort of isn’t.

Stiles holds up the t-shirt in question. “I’ve been looking for this forever,” he says. “I already thought I’d lost it, you fucker. You knew I was looking for it, you could’ve _said._ ”

Derek is laughing quietly into the pillow.

“’Hey, Stiles, remember that shirt you told me you were looking for everywhere? Your favourite shirt? Don’t worry about it, it’s at my place, it hasn’t been eaten by a kelpie.’” Stiles bitches, and carefully folds the shirt up, puts it where his phone is so he won’t forget to rescue it from Derek’s evil clutches.

“Why would your shirt get eaten by a kelpie?” Derek asks. “We don’t even have kelpies in Beacon Hills.”

“I don’t know, with our track records, it seems likely.” Stiles shrugs. After all, what hasn’t come to Beacon Hills for a delicious snack? Obviously, it’s mostly people and not shirts, but who knows. He tells Derek as much, who scoffs.

“You’re ridiculous,” Derek says.

“Shut up. My favourite shirt, Derek!”

“Every shirt is your favourite shirt.” Derek rolls his eyes.

“Don’t mock the deep and abiding love we share, you heathen.”

“Deep and abiding love, huh?” Derek lifts his head from the pillow so the judgmental eyebrows can have their full effect.

Stiles sniffs. “I love this shirt more than anything else in this world.”

“Oh?” Derek inquires, drawing idle patterns on the skin of Stiles’ back. “More than me?”

“Definitely. It’s not mean to me.”

“Does it give you orgasms?”

“Sometimes,” Stiles says haughtily.

Derek sneaks a hand down to his boxers, gently cups the bulge of his groin and Stiles – Stiles wants to pretend to be put out, he really does, but this is Derek, and his body has been conditioned to react to the slightest touches, so he arches into it shamelessly and doesn’t keep the moan from slipping past his lips.

“Several times a day?” Derek asks, lips against his neck, and Stiles sighs and lets himself be manhandled down onto the mattress and turns around so he can get a good look at his boyfriend, lets his gaze sweep all over Derek’s body. It’s a ridiculously mind-melting sight, and it’s all his.

“I think these are my boxers,” he comments before Derek tackles him and shuts him up with his mouth and then some.

 


End file.
